Pretty White Horse
by k o u s e n
Summary: Look, mommy. I wrote you a tragedy. [ KAIRI ]


**Pretty White Horse**

♥ «- - -

Your life turned out to be a swirling vortex for a reason that you'll never know. Your life has always been a hectic mess. You remember it from the earliest memories you have. You remember that your father wasn't there and your mother tried to make the best of what the two of you had.

She always talked to you about what you wanted to be when you grew up. You'd tell her you wanted to be a princess with a pretty white pony or a princess with a knight in shining armor or a princess with a flower and a prince. She'd always smile and nod during your stories, then ask you, 'Is there always a happy ending?'.

Of course there was. There was always a happy ending with a kiss and a sunset and a pretty white pony. There was always pink and purple and blue and green; _happy_ colors. There was never black or gray or red. There were never tears or sadness; there were only smiles and laughs and happy endings.

Sometimes your mother would skip the question about what you wanted to be when you grew up and ask what would make you happy in the future. She was always all about making sure you were happy. When she asked that question you would put your hand on your chin and tilt your head and try to get your eyes to look serious, but you always ended up crossing them. But it didn't matter that you did that. You didn't need to think about it. 'I want to write a fairytale.'

Your mother always looked happy and sad all at once but happy overruled sad at that time, so you were happy too. You ran to the kitchen to help her cook dinner and by the time you were put to bed with a bed time story about a pretty white pony, you'd forgotten all about that look in her eyes.

---» ♥

You grew up reading fairytales and wanting to write one and wanting to _live_ one some day. You grew up with friends who enjoyed your stories about the prince and the princess and the pretty white horse. You grew up sheltered from the violence that was hidden in alleyways. You grew up, but your friends grew faster, and eventually they didn't want to hear your fairytales.

You always asked, 'Don't you want to live a fairytale?'. They'd always shake their heads and tell you no and walk off to smoke in the second floor bathroom because they'd rather live an action story. On those days you saw the piercing red shirts that people wore and the hidden black shadows and the dull gray eyes of the people standing in the alleys. Those were the days you went home and painted sections of your wall red and black. One more day, one more section.

It was a bad day that you had when you went home and painted the rest of your walls red and outlined them black and picked up your first cigarette. One of your friends had told you that maybe you needed to grow up a little and realize that fairytale endings never happened. You smoked that cigarette and picked up a razorblade and snuck a beer while your mom wasn't looking.

It was the ending to your fairytale and the beginning to the _real_ novel of your life.

---» ♥

You realized that characters in novels had bad days and low points. You realized that blood and water was pretty and when you added alcohol to the equation there was nothing better. You realized that your mother hadn't asked about your fairytales in a while so you went and sat in her lap, even though you were too old to be doing that now.

She looked sad and tired and asked you, 'Is this your future?'. You told her no because there was no sign of a fairytale now. She told you she preferred tragedies. They were so much nicer than the sappy sunsetkisswhiteponies.

You went home the next day and realized she knew how pretty blood and water was too. You decided your own blood looked better than hers because hers was all over the floor and all over the room and on _everything_. It was in the water and on her clothes and in her hair and it stained your mind and the numbers on the phone as you pressed them.

Her body was taken away because there was nothing that could be done now. You went to stay with relatives you never knew you had and decided that your friends were right; action novels were so much better. You took a different approach that your mother did. You decided the last thing you ever needed to hear was the click of the safety lock on that pretty silver gun.

…**look, mommy. i wrote you a tragedy.**

♥« - - -

(**an**):: the very last line came to me during math or something.  
i think it turned out really short but I have writers block so I guess  
this is better than nothing. i've got so many fics started; way more  
than ever before at one time. the writers block needs to dig a hole and  
die.

I'm not dedicating this to anyone because  
I don't think it's good enough.


End file.
